


Love Words In Russian

by RobbieTurner



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Dark, I'm Going to Hell, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Wilson Fisk is a horrible person, mentions of torture, poor baby Volodya, spoilers about the fanfic I mean, spoilers not tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-07
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:57:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3892030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobbieTurner/pseuds/RobbieTurner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This a story about Vladimir Ranskahov, a boy who laughed and killed, who loved his brother, who was a wolf among lions bleeding sweetly in Wilson Fisk's lap. </p>
<p>To the lovely Hieiandshino, who owns me a happier one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Words In Russian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hieiandshino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hieiandshino/gifts).



 

 

He had a girlfriend once, whom he addressed as _Любимая моя_ , the sweetness of the term melting in his mouth like a snowflake, like fresh blood, like nothing else would. She had sun-kissed-hair and called him Volodya.

That was long ago.

Fisk likes to grab him by his hair – also yellow, where his babushka used to lay kisses – and force him on his knees.

“You have a woman,” Vladimir spats; because apparently he’s not tired of getting slapped and punished, face inches from Fisk’s crotch. “Why don’t you make _her_ suck your cock?”

“I’d never submit Vanessa to such degradation.” The man answers, as if explaining something to a very dumb, very hopeless child. “That’s what street rats like you are for.”

Vladimir groans when Wilson’s cock sinks in his mouth.

 

 

He used to be a prince once, licking clean fingers covered in caviar and making his brother laugh at the tiny rebellion of it.

They grew up in a dacha bought cheap out of the crumbling Soviet Union, and were raised by their babushka, who was born when Stalin was still alive and kicking. They played every day on the ground where Russians died fighting Germans, and were rather proud of their past and country, but not so much as not to yearn for bigger worlds. Vladimir would sneak into Anatoly’s bed almost every night and talk excitedly and fall asleep in his brother’s arms. Anatoly would try not to think too hard about his wishes, about the warmth, about the meaning of the word treasure.

Anatoly was sixteen and Vladimir was twelve when their grandmother died and they were sent to Moscow where they learned how to sin. Maybe it was Anatoly’s quiet ambition, or Vladimir violent eagerness, but the mob found them quickly. They fit in. And then they started to stand out.

 

 

He wakes up hungry and warm and those are not good signs. You don’t expect to feel like that when you are dead.  

(In heaven they are back at the dacha and the winter is melting away. Anatoly was made whole again, the blood gone like the cold. Here, he thinks, the castle, the kings.)

The first thing he sees is a strange white wall that he later recognizes as an ugly painting. He groans. He was supposed to die like a wolf among lions. Why is he human again?  

The masked man. Maybe the fool’s managed to take him out. Vladimir tries to get up, letting out a pained cry. He looks down, and there’s blood below his ribs, flowering from a patched wound. His right leg is not working properly, and simply raising himself to sit is difficult and painful enough. He’s in a large room, lying down on a black rug, surrounded by minimalist decor and large glass windows through which he can see Hell’s Kitchen. He’s almost naked too, wearing only black boxers and the ink in his skin.

In comes Fisk’s lapdog Wesley, followed by Fisk himself.

Vladimir lights up with rage.

“YOU!” he screams at Wilson. “ _Schas po ebalu poluchish, blyad_! You killed my brother!”

“He says he’s gonna kill you.” Wesley translates, amused. Fisk walks to him, bald and giant and looking like he’s either sorry or curious. This is the last thing his brother saw. Vladimir never hated someone so much.

“I understand why you are angry.” He says, with that rough, deep voice of his. Vladimir spits at him, managing, pathetically, to hit his expensive shoes. “I understand why you are angry,” he starts again. “But your brother is not dead.”

Of all things he could say, none would catch the Russian more out of guard.

“What…?” He looks at Fisk like he’s crazy. “Do you think I’m idiot? I saw my brother’s dead body. I know you took his head.”

“That’s what we wanted you to think, of course. We needed to end your organization, and we were hoping you’d take down the masked man with you.” Wesley explains with a pleasant smile on his lips. “That body was a fake. We have your brother. He’s safe – for now.”

He recalled his own tears, the damp fabric, the body he used to kiss rendered lifeless, and the craved atonement that kept him awake and alive.

“You lie. I know my brother. I know his body. That was no fake.”

Fisk tilts his head a little. Wesley goes on:

“This city has seen a hammer-wielding god, a giant green monster and an alien army. Do you really think a well-made fake body is hard to come by? You just need the right friends.”

“Your brother is alive, Vladimir.” Fisk says.

There’s a part of Vladimir that wants to believe that and he knows this part will be his downfall. However, how deeper can he still fall? Not much. He allows the doubt to blossom. It feels rather good, as if the ice of his lungs were now nursing a small ember in the shape of his brother’s eyes.

When he opens his mouth again he’s ready to negotiate.

 

 

He celebrates his eighteenth birthday by tattooing a knife in his shoulder, and a single blood-tear in its tip. He feels silly; needing his brother hand holding his while the needle paints his skin, when he had no need of that to kill a man.  Many drops to follow, he wishes himself, instead of a happy birthday.  

By this time, he knows already that he likes girls – and he also knows he likes his brother.

“You are a man now, little brother.” Anatoly says, an arm around his shoulder, while they share a bottle of vodka. Vladimir was born during the spring. It’s not so cold now and they walk through Moscow carelessly, half-drunk, half-kings.

“I think I deserve more than blood and vodka to celebrate.”

Anatoly laughs.

“What else do you want?”

“I want a kiss.” He answers, sounding more like a brat than a prince.

“Let’s find a pretty girl for you, then. Whatever happened to that cute little thing you were dating?”

“Tolya” Vladimir starts, vaguely annoyed, drunk and red and grabbing him by the coat. “I want to kiss you.”

Vladimir has remains of his baby-fat and he is blonde and adorable and looks sixteen.  Anatoly would kiss him any day.

“I kiss you all the time.” And he does. On the cheeks, the top of his head, on the lips sometimes, a touch so rare that leaves him starving.

“Tolya.” Vladimir insists.

Anatoly sighs. He grabs Vladimir’s face with both hands and kisses him lightly on the lips.

“Happy now?”

His younger brother laughs.

“You call that a kiss?”

Infuriating boy. Anatoly never threaded on thinner ice, never felt guilt like he does now, and was never this aroused.  He holds his little brother again, by the waist, and has the pleasure of seeing the blushing darken on his cheeks before kissing him again. A real one this time, which leaves them both breathless for a while.

Their foreheads touch and they keep their eyes close for a while.

“Don’t think about it.” Vladimir says, his hands on Anatoly’s face. “You can’t think about it or you’ll go mad.”

“I know. I know.” Anatoly answers, but he doesn’t know. How could he?

They kiss a hundred times more.

 

 

The irony of his shattered body is that he never managed not to be pretty. He counts scars like tattoos. A burned bullet hole, the fading cuts on his face. He’s used to be unmade. But not like this. Never like this.

He almost cries out, his knuckles turning white against the grey sheets as he holds for what is left of dear life. Fisk pants a little, retrieving the belt. Vladimir’s ass is painted red. He gasps when Fisk sits on the bed, touches his hair and holds his face as though he’s something precious. He can take the spanking and the belting, but not the disgusting tenderness that follows.

“Otva`li.” He curses, Russian being his only solace, his only privacy.  

Fisk pays him no mind, tracing the marks he made with the hand that made them, the tip of his fingers burning Vladimir’s skin. He touches the cleft of his ass, pressing, violating. Vladimir lets out another curse, and the word niet. It’s easy to like him like this, when he’s hopeless and his threats are no more than a child’s tantrums.  Fisk wonders if the masked-man would agree with him.

“You’re very responsive,” Wilson comments, fingering the Russian, watching as he chokes on moans. “You ever done this before?” he presses deeper now, finding the man’s prostate. “With your brother, maybe?”

Vladimir, a predictable creature, trashes against his restraints.

“Do not talk about him. Don’t you dare-!”

He takes out his fingers; cover’s Vladimir bruised body with his own, and opens the lube. Before fucking him, Fisk says:

“I suspected a bitch like you would get down on all fours for your own brother.”

 

 

When he’s not being raped he’s being drugged and when he’s not being drugged he remembers. Words only written in Cyrillic, the masked man, songs from his childhood, the woman with red hair that gave him the scar on his face. He’s a tough thing, difficult to break. In the moments of lucidity he asks to see his brother. Tomorrow, maybe, if you behave, is the usual answer. Tomorrow never comes. In Fisk’s home time works oddly.  

 

 

English is easier to Anatoly. There’s a bed in a small room where Vladimir half-sleeps, royal and unapologetic like a cat. Anatoly reads the words aloud to him, his back resting in the bedframe, and then asks his brother to repeat them for him. Vladimir groans, his feet resting in the pillows next to Anatoly’s arm.

“You won’t go far in America if you don’t know the language.”

“I know enough,” Vladimir says, turning to look at his brother. “Shit, motherfucker, asshole, son of a bitch…”

Anatoly laugh a little, looking at him disapprovingly.

“Fuck me…” Vladimir says, sweeter this time, spreading his legs. “Fuck me, брат.”

Anatoly smiles and puts the book away.  

  
  
  
  


He’s softer now, tainted. Still a wolf, but a caged one. Too weak to chew his own leg and escape, too strong to die.  Almost a pet, almost the bitch Fisk claims he is. The hope to see his brother again fades every day. He’s kept alive in his mind, in the city of Moscow, in the past he wants back.  

Fisk has him on a table, a very expensive one, surrounded by glass windows. It’s the first time in days Vladimir sees the sun so he bathes a little in it. He never asks Wilson why he is doing this; why torture and fuck him; why not to kill him already. He never gives him a chance to elaborate a speech, to gloat, to feed in the sound of his own voice. Vladimir is a wolf but he understands the sadism of lions. He was never a pervert, sick fuck like Fisk and Wesley are, but he has tasted blood and he liked.

He’s wearing a shirt too large for him – it belongs to Fisk – and nothing else. Once a prince, now reduced to thighs where hands touch to carve, a red mouth made to maim, a tight ass made to fuck. There are more dignified tortures and he thinks of them as Wilson bends him over the table, gives his ass a playful – _playful_ – slap and thrusts into him. He thinks of Siberia and flogs, of water so cold it burned, he thinks- until Fisk slams against his prostate and wraps a hand around his cock. Wilson’s movements are precise. It’s a form of punishment, of humiliation, to make Vladimir come, and he does it every time.

He pictures Anatoly and tries not to moan.

  
  
  
  


Vladimir is not afraid of the things he knows, like a knife under his fingernails and the secrets of a rotting corpse. But he’s afraid of the machine in the room with no windows to which Fisk brings him one day, two months after he woke up in his chambers. He’s afraid of this machine as much as he was afraid of the woman with blood-soaked hair, the she-wolf who barred her teeth to him and laughed and defeated him and gave him the scar in his face; the woman who, after all that, helped sending him to spend three years in Siberia. But at least Vladimir knew her name, or a shadow of a name. She was the Red Death, the Slavic Shadow, the Black Widow. This machine – that reeks of another man’s sweat and muffled screaming – is entirely unknown to him.

Wesley pats the sit in the machine. “Sit.” He says. “This is the last thing. After we are done you can see your brother.”

“What does it do?” Vladimir asks.

Wesley’s smirk is faint, and he exchanges a look with Fisk.

“It will make you stronger.”

Why resist now? He sits. They put something in his mouth – to muffle the screams? – And a thing made of dark metal descends, fitting around his head.

_Oh_ , he thinks, when they turn the thing on and the pain blinds him, _I see my brother_.

 

-//-

 

Wilson Fisk watches the sky-high buildings around his garden, and sips slowly his coffee. Wesley approaches, blackberry in hand.

“He’s almost ready, sir.”

Wilson looks at him and asks:

“Do you think it was a good idea?”

“What? Making your own Winter Soldier?  Yes, I expect them to become very fashionable in the future. We weren’t the only ones to buy Hydra’s tech, after all.” Wesley smiles, and noticing the look in Wilson’s face, he clarifies: “But none will be as… manageable as yours, I think.”

"Why do you think so?”

Wesley’s smile widens.

“Because you broke him so beautifully first. I doubt any of the others will be able to do the same.”

This time, Fisk returns the smile.

“Thank you, Wesley.”

The day remains beautiful in Hell’s Kitchen.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I want to apologise to my mom and to the great Russian nation, thank Lorage for the beta, and curse Hieiandshino for arousing the idea in me. Forever in denial about what happened to Volodya in Daredevil, btw. My russian trash baby.  
> For more tickets to hell, visit my tumblr: karennpages.tumblr.com


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